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Lizzie Bevis Jun 19
When I was small,  
your hand held mine,  
in a father’s grip,  
both firm and kind.  
I’d look up in awe
at your towering frame,  
your proud stance unwavering.
I'd like to think that I was a good girl
who obeyed the rules,
because your voice was profound,  
grounding my feet
onto the solid ground.

Through my childhood,  
long HGV trips were the norm,  
and I listened for the latch  
on the garden gate,
as I waited patiently  
for your return.  
I remember how you were
so regimented and set in your ways,  
but your love shone through  
in those distant days.  
I felt relief as years passed,
your strict edges softened,  
into acceptance at last.

Now time’s cogs have turned,  
our roles have reversed,
and life writes for us  
in a different verse.  
Once you strode  
with a confident pace,  
but a Zimmer frame  
now takes that place.  
Your hands, once strong,  
are fragile and sore,  
stiffened by time,  
yet still they endure.

I see the warrior’s spirit  
that still burns inside you,  
as cancer battles loom,  
you strive to push through.  
Where once you led  
with a mighty stride,  
it is now my turn  
to care and guide.  
My strength is yours  
as we walk a little slower these days
with me still by your side.

©️Lizzie Bevis
My Dad has been in hospital over the past few weeks following a series of falls.
Sadly, this lead to a diagnosis of advanced cancer throughout my dads body.
My Dad was always a proud and stubborn man,
thankfully he has mellowed a little in his twilight years.
I am glad that I am able to help him to feel comfortable and cared for.

I know what is to come...and it will be tough.
The heart of a writer is frail, like that of a flower waiting to be plucked. Life itself, or love, could uproot it, for no rhyme or reason.

I hate to say that my heart has been salted by the woes of man.
This never-ending race has left me wanting for watering.
Hang my heart on your wall with the others to dry out, my love.
I'm tired and weary—I need rest.
Life can be so bleak sometimes.
Mugerwa Muzamil Dec 2023
Soul, don't slip through that windpipe
Soul, hang on even if it be on thorns
Though you bleed to find tomorrow
Angels, fledge his soul from the wind
For wind flies the wingless
Scatters seeds of men
Shakes marrows of old

When time draws close
Feathers on the quill sway
Feel of hair on the heads numb
and the bald heads run cold
Colored spots in eyes cloud

For wind flies the wingless
Shakes off hands of clocks
Skins crease to dry dates
You dither you wither
Then you realize
Those myths
are true stories, that grew weak

14th December 2023
James Rives Jul 2023
in moonlight whispers love fills my heart
and glass with wine, and magnifies
my soul to tenderness.

the biting, scraping, lustful pining
for distant and abhorrent truth
is solace in place of reality.

a reality where we address the trauma
of unkind childhoods, bloodied knees,
and chipped teeth.

misunderstandings that follow the gap
in a shortness of breath before an apology.
that remind you that your thoughts
can only love if you do.

and years later you will have some drunken
outpour that darkens the moonlight
and comfort, but makes way
to some otherworldly dawn beyond
the you that reads this now.
Back then you were
Happy, thankful, content
A year later
Broken, wailing and spent
A month later
Hopeful, nervous and sad
A week later
It's the worst that you've ever had
A day later
You're healing and turning to friends
An hour later
Treading barefoot in the sand
A minute later
't was never so easy to love
A second later
Your heart's being taken apart...
What will happen,

we never know from the start.
Lainey Aug 2020
Sitting by his bedside
Consulting with the Fates
Will this be his time to go?
To rattle Pearly Gates?

He seems to be so fragile
And yet the spirit’s there!
Disguised by sagging jowls
And age spots,  hiding in grey hair.

The afterlife has been discussed
He’s scoffed at it and said
What do I care? Burned or buried?
I’ll be dead!

I watch him in his frailty
Yet strong-willed as can be
He clings to life with stubbornness,  
Blessed mortality!

Neither of us ready
To speak of things to come
We focus on the monitors,
The air vents’ harmless hum.

The ordering of breakfast
And peeing in a cup,
The trolley and it’s offerings
Upon which we both sup.

The future is unknown now
So we resign to be
Contented in the moment and
Embrace the mystery.

The choice is not for us to make
whatever we believe
So quiet words of love are whispered
With our hearts on sleeve.

Waiting now is our new game,
Though we, the pawns and Kings
Pronounce that it ain’t over
‘Til that fat lady sings!
A few days later he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. It’s as if we knew.
Sky May 2020
Cold and callous he approaches
as the night falls.
He’ll conquer this vast kingdom
as darkness calls.

You can run
but he’ll catch up,
try to hide
and he’ll find out
or stand up to fight:
you’d lose your light
in the black midnight.

There’ll be no mercy when he comes.
Bend down, surrender!
Of all your kingdoms
He’ll be the ender.

Though this fierce knight has a frail side
one he desperately tries to hide:
a heart made of stone and cold
that can’t be touched nor consoled.
Avery Glows Mar 2020
Being ill is, above all
a sensual thing.
Being reminded of your own mortality,
like never before,
of the reflexes that died in my womb.
It was a dreadful lesson that I've learnt.
I tended to my body
like a lover,
promising in blind faith
that all will be well.

Such luxurious peace—
It was very much like getting possessed, you know
Becoming painfully aware of nothing
but yourself crooked in a crouch
is the only way to stand,
for it is too laborious even to stand straight.
And the noise,
the constant thumping of the heart.
pulsations bleeching
too much, too loud.

What do I know of health before this?
Now it begs my attention like a serpent's hiss.
Dissolving all but sense and solitude,
gripping
me into the lore of pure consciousness.
Like a true predator,
languishing
over yet another sleepless night.
Proctor Ehrling Sep 2019
The system failed
I burnt my house
I seem so frail
As small as mouse
The ashes scatter
All around
It doesn't matter
I'm now unbound
Freestyle written in 4 minutes
Damian Murphy Aug 2019
They are mostly elderly, frail, ghostly pale, lying there in their beds, comatose. Drugged out of their heads on painkilling meds, rarely with their mouths closed, though many with their teeth close. Tubes in their nose or oxygen masks for those for whom breathing has become too much of a task, I suppose. Totally oblivious to all those of us who have chosen to visit, just to be close. Lost in a world of their own, fighting battles unknown to most of us.
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